


Little Things

by eloquentelegance



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:13:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquentelegance/pseuds/eloquentelegance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Jack is touched by small kindnesses</p><p>"Anon, can I please have Jack being unused to physical touch and small kindnesses after years of not having them? Getting presents, someone making him a meal, hugs, stroking his hair, holding his hand, getting to sleep in a bed in a house, someone around to talk to... just little things that the other Guardians take for granted and he really, really doesn't. Break my heart, please, anon."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Things

Tooth smells like safron and cinammon and paprika. She smells like wet jungle heat and raindrops on verdant green leaves. Her scent curls around him, the warmth of a cooking kitchen after playing in the snow.

North has callouses on every finger. His palms worn to leather and the hide of a teddy bear when all its fur is loved away. Sometimes, he thinks he could fit in North’s hands and curl up between the palm lines, snug as a blanket in a blizzard night.

Bunnymund laughs the way marbles roll across the floor. It’s a rare treat when Bunnymund laughs. It’s a spring released, like the first day of summer. It envelops him, a hot cocoa balm cooling by the frosted window.

Sandy smiles with a secret, a hidden starlight wish in the curve of his lips. He smiles soft and steady, silent as the coming dawn. Sandy smiles at him and he’s reminded of winter nights falling asleep at the hearth and waking up in the comfort of his bed. 

These are small things, infinitely small and insignificant. Jack tucks these away in the corner of his lips and the marrow of his bones. These are the things he clings to on dark, moonless nights. Someone greets him in the morning and someone bids him good night. Someone claps him on the shoulder, nudges him the ribs, and holds his hand tight. These are quick and quiet moments.

But these are his and his alone. These are pinpricks of light in a pitch black sky 300 years wide. And one by one, they lead him home.


End file.
